Jennifer Roberson Read Online Free PDF

would go away. But he knew the sound. It was Cat, not a gillie; wearily, falling back against his chair, the fifth Laird of Glen Lyon called for his daughter to enter.
    She was dressed for bed, as she should be at such a late hour: a tattered tartan plaid doubling as shawl was pulled haphazardly across thin shoulders clad in dingy nightclothes. Her hair was braided carelessly, one loose strand hanging beside her face. It was, like the braid itself, a brilliant, unmistakable red, even in wan light; he had not bequeathed his daughter the yellowed strawberry of his own now-graying hair, nor the watery gray-blue eyes through which he watched the world.
    Acknowledgment pinched; he had sired handsome boys, and one unhandsome daughter. What will I do with this lass? What man will have her?
    Barefoot, Cat came into the room and stopped but two paces from the open door, as if wary of his mood. She left herself escape; Glenlyon’s smile was warped as he recognized the foresight, the care with which she approached the man who had sired her.
    He was not so fou , so drunk as to be blind to her resolution. He saw it in her eyes, in her jutting chin, in the stubborn set of her mouth. “Tomorrow,” she said.
    “Tomorrow,” he agreed; there was no need to elaborate.
    Blue-green eyes held steady. “Can I come?”
    “You canna.”
    The wide mouth—too wide for her face, he thought absently—tightened fractionally. “You promised me I could go to Edinburgh.”
    “You will go—but not tomorrow.”
    She raised her chin. “I’m thirteen, now.”
    He smiled. As he lifted the cup to his mouth the welcome tang of whisky filled his nostrils, begging to be swallowed. Saliva flowed into his mouth. He savored the peat smell, anticipating the bite, the taste, the warmth, the empowerment—and the escape. “So old?”
    It was challenge, not question. “No longer a wee bairn.”
    He swirled liquor in his cup. The pungency of the whisky, reinforced by the motion, made his eyes water.
    “Why can I not go tomorrow?” The plaid slipped off a shoulder; she dragged it up again. In the brief, impatient motion he saw the texture of prominent knuckles newly scraped raw, glistening wetly in lamplight. “You’ll be taking Robbie—”
    “I willna.”
    It stopped her in full spate. Straight but eloquent eyebrows slid closer to her hairline. “You willna be taking Robbie . . .”
    “I said so.” The waiting was done. He drank, gulping steadily. He saw the sharpness of her attention center briefly on the cup, as if she blamed whisky for his intransigence, and then her gaze slid aside. “I’m taking no one, Cat. No one but me was summoned.”
    “Summoned!” Astonishment was plain. “Who can summon you? You’re Laird of Glenlyon!”
    His hand shook. Whisky slopped over the rim of the cup, trickled between clenched fingers, dripped to his kilted thigh where it beaded briefly on wool, then soaked in slowly. The addition of his other hand temporarily stilled the trembling, but Glenlyon was aware of it nonetheless. The tremors, he knew, were merely outward manifestations of the soul shriveling within.
    “Who?” she repeated.
    “Breadalbane himself.”
    The mutinous set of her mouth slackened. “Oh.”
    She knew. They all knew. With Argyll’s recent execution, the Earl of Breadalbane—and half a dozen other lesser titles—had stepped into the void. Clan Campbell was his now, because he had assumed control before anyone else could suggest another man. In disarray, it was far simpler to let the earl assume control. Until—and if —he disproved his ability, they would answer to him.
    As for Glenlyon of Glen Lyon, such answering was required. He and Breadalbane were cousins, but there was more. Far more linked them than the natural fealty owed to an earl, or kinsman. There was also the small matter of comhairl’taigh, the oath Glenlyon had sworn—and signed—giving over to Argyll and Breadalbane jointly the guidance of his house.
    Because he